Jackson's POV
I told myself I wouldn't look for her.
That had become my quiet rule lately, an unspoken boundary I clung to because everything else already felt too close to collapsing. If I didn't seek her out, if I didn't linger where I knew she might be, then maybe I could pretend I still had control.
That illusion lasted less than an hour.
I was crossing the courtyard after a faculty meeting, my jacket folded over my arm, my mind half-occupied with departmental budgets and upcoming assessments. The campus was alive in that careless way it always was in the late afternoon, students sprawled on benches, laughter floating through the air, lives unfolding freely.
Then I saw her.
Erica stood near the steps of the student union.
She wasn't alone.
At first, I registered only the shape of her, familiar posture, the way she tucked one foot slightly behind the other when she stood still. My attention sharpened instinctively, my body reacting before reason could intervene.
Then I noticed him.
A male student stood with her, angled toward her in a way that suggested comfort, not coincidence. He was tall, lean, easy in his skin. The kind of confidence that didn't need to announce itself. His backpack hung loosely from one shoulder, his sleeves rolled up like he belonged exactly where he was.
They were talking.
Erica laughed.
Not the restrained, polite smile she wore in class. Not the careful expression she'd adopted around me lately.
This laugh was open.
Unfiltered.
It startled something deep in my chest.
I slowed.
Then stopped.
I told myself it was curiosity. That I was only observing because it was impossible not to notice two people standing in plain sight. But my body betrayed me, rooted me to the spot as I watched them.
The boy. Daniel, though I didn't know his name yet, said something that made her shake her head, smiling as if she were trying not to laugh again. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face with an ease that made my jaw tighten.
Too familiar.
Too comfortable.
His hand rested briefly at her waist.
A simple gesture. Casual. The kind no one would think twice about.
She didn't step away.
Instead, she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder for just a second.
One second.
That was all it took.
My chest constricted sharply, breath catching before I forced it out. The sensation surprised me with its intensity—an irrational twist of something dark and possessive that had no business existing.
This was normal.
This was allowed.
This was exactly what she should be doing.
I turned away before either of them could notice me, my steps quickening as I forced myself to move. My fingers curled tightly around the fabric of my jacket, knuckles whitening.
I had no claim.
No right.
No justification.
And yet, the image followed me all the way back to my office.
Later, the name came to me without warning.
Two students passed my door, voices low but clear enough to carry.
"Erica and Daniel? They're always together now."
Daniel.
The name lodged itself in my mind, unwelcome and persistent.
Daniel was in her year. Same faculty. Same world. Someone who could sit beside her without consequence, laugh with her without scrutiny, touch her without risking destruction.
Someone who didn't have to hesitate.
The next lecture confirmed everything I didn't want to admit.
Daniel sat beside her.
Not close enough to be inappropriate. Just close enough to signal something established. He slid a pen across the desk when hers fell. She murmured a quiet thank-you, their shoulders brushing briefly.
I stood at the podium, notes in hand, and felt something ugly stir beneath my composure.
Jealousy.
I hated the word.
I hated the truth behind it even more.
I began the lecture as I always did, voice measured, posture controlled, eyes scanning the room with practiced authority. On the surface, nothing was different.
Inside, everything was.
Every time Daniel leaned toward her. Every time she smiled at something he wrote. Every time she nodded at his quiet comment.
When Daniel raised his hand to answer a question, I acknowledged him neutrally. Professional. Detached.
When Erica finally raised hers, after days of deliberate silence, my chest tightened despite myself.
Her voice was softer than usual. Careful. Guarded.
I answered her question evenly, refusing to let my tone betray me this time. But I saw it anyway, the way Daniel glanced at her with quiet pride, the way she relaxed slightly afterward.
Professor Carter noticed.
He always noticed.
After class, as students filtered out, he lingered by the door, watching me with the same calm scrutiny he'd used for years.
Daniel and Erica left together, deep in conversation, unaware of the impact of their closeness.
"You're distracted," Carter said at last.
"I'm fine," I replied too quickly.
He didn't challenge me. He rarely did. He simply studied me, then said, "Jealousy is still attachment, even when you dress it up as concern."
The words landed with uncomfortable precision.
"I have no claim," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Exactly," he replied quietly. "That's what makes it dangerous."
That night, alone in my apartment, I finally stopped lying to myself.
Seeing Erica with Daniel hadn't hurt because I was losing her.
It hurt because I never had her.
Because she was choosing something simpler. Safer. Something that didn't ask her to fracture herself around rules and consequences.
Daniel wasn't a threat because he crossed lines.
He was a threat because he didn't have any.
And for the first time since this began, I understood something terrifying with absolute clarity:
This wasn't just attraction.
It wasn't even desire.
It was jealousy.
And it was already changing me.